


different from all other nights

by Kaesa



Series: Soft Reboot [2]
Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Time Travel, Anyway you've been warned, Established Relationship, Historical Inaccuracy, M/M, Nonnies Made Me Do It, Pesach | Passover, but I like to think it's in the grand Jewish tradition of offering concrit to God, more than a little sacrilegious
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-09
Updated: 2019-08-09
Packaged: 2020-08-13 21:55:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,774
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20181337
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kaesa/pseuds/Kaesa
Summary: The second time around, Aziraphale and Crowley decide that nine plagues is more than enough.





	different from all other nights

In retrospect, Aziraphale wonders if maybe they could've stopped this nonsense at locusts. Or frogs. Or even blood. But no, here he is, sneaking from shadow to shadow with a bucket of lamb's blood. He's had to wait until everybody was in bed first, lest anyone ask questions about why he is defacing their doorways.

Actually, yes, he decides, they _should've _done this during those three days of darkness.

He'll have to remember that, if this comes around again a third time.

He dips his paintbrush in the bucket, and trails a streak of gore over the doorway.

AZIRAPHALE, says a voice that's not so much a voice as it is a feeling of dread and inevitability, made to resemble the sound of his name.

He turns around slowly, already knowing what he is going to see. "Azrael! It's been _such _a long time, how _have _you been?" he says to the tall, gaunt figure in the robe.

TELL ME, AZIRAPHALE, ARE YOU AND YOUR COUNTERPART GOING TO DO THIS THE ENTIRE TIME?

Aziraphale draws himself up to his full height, which is not terribly much compared to the Angel of Death. "Yes," he says, quietly. "I'm afraid we are. It's not right, you know, what they did." He knows his sword doesn't have a chance against that scythe, but if he has to go down fighting, he will.

If Azrael had eyes, they would be rolling. AND WHERE IS CROWLEY?

"Wouldn't you like to know?" says Aziraphale. He decides Azrael isn't going to kill him, probably, or at least not yet, and decides to get more doorways painted. So he walks over to the next house, dead locusts crunching under his sandals.

Azrael follows him soundlessly, watching as he paints another red streak over a door.

AZIRAPHALE, REALLY? He is pinching the bridge of his nonexistent nose when Aziraphale looks back at him. YOU KNOW I CAN SEE YOU DOING THAT.

"Well, it's in the rules isn't it?" Aziraphale says. "You have to pass over those houses. It's in the _name._"

I JUST SAW YOU PAINT THAT, says Azrael. THAT IS PLAINLY NOT AN ISRAELITE HOUSEHOLD.

"Well, of course not, this isn't where the slaves live anyway," says Aziraphale. He'd gone through and done that neighborhood first thing, because the non-Israelite slaves seemed to deserve this punishment the _least._"Oh, I know it's not fooling you, but you can't go in there, can you?" Azrael sighs heavily, quite a feat for someone with no lungs. "Tell me, Azrael, did they even _consult _you when they reset the _entire universe?_" he asks, wandering over to another door.

THEY DID NOT, says Azrael. He sounds slightly sulky about this.

"Awful lot of work just to drop on your desk without notice," says Aziraphale. "I'd be pretty angry, if I were you. You could go on strike, you know."

I DID NOT KILL ANYONE, says Azrael. THERE WAS SIMPLY, SUDDENLY, NOBODY TO KILL.

"Ah," says Aziraphale. "So it was more of a sudden furlough." His paint is clotting up, and he wastes a miracle on getting it to flow better before dipping his paintbrush in it again. "Tell me, Azrael, do you _like _your job?"

I DO MEET PLENTY OF INTERESTING PEOPLE, says Azrael.

"Not for very long, though." Aziraphale hurries down the street to paint another doorway. "And you must meet a lot of idiots."

YES, Azrael admits, A TRULY INCREDIBLE AMOUNT OF IDIOTS. He lets this sit with Aziraphale for a beat, and then asks, WHERE IS THE DEMON CROWLEY, AZIRAPHALE?

"Oh, you know. Around. Somewhere. Really could be anywhere by now," Aziraphale lies. "Why do you ask?"

The silence is long and terrible, and Aziraphale worries for a moment that this is it; Azrael has finally lost patience with him and he will be no more. When he turns, though, he sees Azrael standing stock still, his hood thrown back and his skull tilted slightly, as though he were listening for something.

I HAVE TO GO, he says suddenly, and it is as if he was never there.

(No it's not. The stench of rotting livestock, the crunch of locust husks and frog bones, the faraway tombs and the temples across the river... Azrael is always here, has always been here, will never be far.)

Aziraphale hears a distant shouting from the direction of the palace, and resists the urge to go make sure Crowley is all right. As the sounds of calamity rise, so does Aziraphale's confidence; Crowley loves a good calamity, and he knows how to handle himself in one. This wasn't in the plan, but the plan is shoddy and they'd expected it to fail somewhere.

It's only that he doesn't know what he'll do with himself if Crowley is discorporated. Probably go to Hell and fight for him. He still has his sword, this time.

Aziraphale tries not to think too hard about it, and throws himself into getting as many doorways painted as possible.

The gibbous moon has traveled quite a ways across the sky before he hears wingbeats. His heart skips a beat, and he sets down the bucket of blood and the paintbrush. When Crowley lands next to him he doesn't even have the chance to put his wings away before Aziraphale is upon him, burying his face in Crowley's neck. "You're here! What happened? Where have you _been?_"

"Oof. Let me breathe, you idiot," says Crowley, but there's a smile in his voice, and he kisses Aziraphale's forehead as they come apart. "So," he says, with a crooked grin on his face, the kind that always means trouble. "You know how they've been hardening the Pharaoh's heart for months now? Just, you know, to be dicks?"

"Yes?" Aziraphale says, hesitantly. He doesn't love where this is going. On the other hand, they have a job to do, and he can't get too distracted. He picks his bucket back up, and hands Crowley a spare paintbrush. "Come on, I still have a few streets to do."

Crowley takes the brush and dips it into the bucket. "Turns out arteriosclerosis is a real bitch," he says, conversationally. He doodles a cock and balls in lamb's blood above the next door down.

"Crowley!" Aziraphale says, scandalized.

"Look, if I'm going to vandalize a whole neighborhood I'm going to do it right. The people who live here are arseholes," says Crowley. "Their kid will be fine, though."

"No, I don't mean that, I mean the _Pharaoh._" He paints a non-phallic streak over the next door. "Although, I mean, he probably deserved it. Takes a certain kind of person to let all this happen. Anyway, what happened to talking Moses into leaving early?"

"Oh, that was __easy__," says Crowley, gesturing a bit too wildly with his paintbrush. "Sorry," he says, miracleing the stain off of Aziraphale's tunic. "Anyway, I think because we'd been working on him, by locusts he was pretty determined not to stick around much longer. They've been making all sorts of preparations, much better than they did before. And, you'll be very happy to hear this, they've got actual leavened bread laid in. I stopped by after dealing with the Pharaoh, and they're on their way now while everyone's distracted."

"Oh good," says Aziraphale. "I mean, I _mean,_ there's nothing _wrong _with matzoh, just -- for a whole _week! _ It was a bit much. Oh, I should mention, I had a nice chat with our very emaciated friend with the scythe. Do you think he could do anything if we stopped time, just to get the rest of this neighborhood?"

Crowley considers this for a long moment. He looks out over the streets, lit only by the moon above. It will be full in a day or two, Aziraphale thinks. "Think we'd better risk it, yeah." He snaps his fingers, and the stars and moon pause in their journeys across the sky. "I can't do this forever, though, you know. We'll have to keep moving."

"When do you think they'll cut our miracle allowance off?" Aziraphale asks, on his toes to reach the top of a particularly high doorway.

Crowley shrugs. "I think if they could've done that by now they would've." He paints a long line of red across the doorways to three houses that share walls. "Have you noticed, She's not quite... showing up on schedule?"

"Yes," said Aziraphale. "It's always _Gabriel._ He doesn't do the voice right at _all._" He pauses suddenly, not even caring that blood is dribbling off his paintbrush and splattering onto the threshold. "Crowley! They didn't _ask for permission! _ They're just going through the motions! Reading off the old script!"

"I had my suspicions during the Flood," says Crowley. "I mean, we managed the evacuation! They didn't need to do the whole bit with the raven and the dove and all that. But yeah, when I talked to Moses, reading between the lines here, Heaven and Hell are _shitting themselves _in terror. I don't even want to __think__ what the Commandments are going to look like. There's probably gonna be twenty-five of them at this rate, and half of them will be Thou Shalt Not Listen To Angels Who Like Pastries Or Extremely Fashionable And On-Trend Demons."

"I don't think he can carry five tablets at once, Crowley." He tries to clean up the dribbles of blood he's left on this door for tidiness' sake, but it's no use; he moves on to the next door.

"Do you think Gabriel knows that?" Crowley asks

"Maybe he'll write very small," says Aziraphale. "Well. We'll just have to deal with it when we get there."

"We could write our own commandments. Get there first," says Crowley.

Aziraphale considers this. It makes him anxious. He wishes that apple he'd eaten had been as effective as advertised. Oh, it's helped, but Good and Evil are so _complicated,_ Aziraphale is mostly just surprised humans aren't totally paralyzed with indecision at all times. "I don't know, that seems like a big step. Let's... let's come up with some preliminary drafts. How would we even phrase the first one without lying?"

"How about 'We're just two idiots, you can take our advice or leave it'?" says Crowley.

"Hmm. That might be a bit __too __honest, actually," says Aziraphale. The blood is clotting again, and he gives it a Very Disappointed look until it thins.

"And the second one can be 'We don't need to be worshiped, just invite us around for dinner every now and again, we like good wine,'" Crowley suggests.

Aziraphale snorts. "Somewhat lacking the gravitas of the original, but you know what? I like it."


End file.
